


Power Games

by Elizabeth Klarke (cyanideparty)



Category: Adolf Hitler - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, Historical RPF, Real Person Fiction, Third Reich - Fandom, World War 2 - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Restraints, Rope Bondage, Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanideparty/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Klarke
Summary: a BDSM Alternate Universe





	Power Games

He was shaking his head from side to side in the darkness, bright, thoughtful eyes wandering across her familiar, recumbent form. Inspecting. He was at the edge of the bed, fingers running over the rigid, lacing paths of rope that were pressing firmly against her skin. Looping, winding and twisting tightly around her chest and stomach and snaking down the two thin valleys between her thighs and her crotch. A neat, intricate network of knots and hexagons. A lovely handmade harness that, with the addition of a simple box tie, kept her arms trapped beneath her, fixed snug to the elegant curve of her spine.

He started to click the tip of his tongue up against the roof of his mouth. Soft, slow and steady. The only sound in the room aside from her heavy albeit steady breathing. “All that time and money you’ve invested into cultivating that modish wardrobe of yours over there,” he said in a low, tender voice, still shaking his head. Speaking as if that fact deserved to be pitied.

One by one, he gently pulled at each of the doubled rope lines, ensuring that the knots were secure and that no part of the complex webbing dressing her body was biting harshly into her flesh. Before each and every play session of this nature, he took the time to run his fingers down the rope’s entire length, studiously searching for any sign of fraying or wear-and-tear.

He didn’t want her damaged after all. Just naked, incapacitated, and utterly helpless.

“How do they feel?” he asked, slipping two fingers in between the stiff, sturdy cords and her skin. He ran them along the underside of the lines, making sure there was still enough slack to allow her blood to continue racing wildly through her veins. She gave a long sigh of approval, rubbing the insides of her thighs and knees together, hips squirming. But he clicked his tongue at her again, a bit louder this time, and used a finger under her chin to guide her gaze to his. “Use your words, little one.”

“They feel good,” she obliged. “Very good.” Hips still squirming, thighs still pressed hard against one another.

He’d soon have to do something about that.

For now, he smiled down at her and chucked her chin up. “Good girls speak when spoken to. You are well aware of this.” He cast his eyes down her body once more. Then, decidedly satisfied with his sophisticated handiwork, he hooked two fingers in under either side of the knot that sat center between her collarbones and yanked her torso up off the bed. Making her gasp. As light and pliable as a child, her body arched and lurched up toward him, the movement satisfying and graceful, like a gymnast or a ballerina, and it brought her face close to his.

His breath blew across her heated cheeks as he spoke, thin and cool to her rising sexual fever. “Yes, all those lavish, colorful outfits you have hanging up over there, made to catch eyes and impress minds. And yet I far prefer this,” he tugged sharply, “to any and every single one of them. Funny how that goes, is it not?”

Her answering smile was weak, her eyes already heavy and glazed. Her complexion was flushed, glimmering rose pink, and she swayed a little where she sat with alcohol-like intoxication “Well, I can hardly wear this out and about,” she mumbled, leaning forward slightly, her gaze noticeably stuck on his lips. “Your friends would all think I’m a whore.”

He exhaled softly with sour amusement (there was already some truth in that statement) before bringing her mouth to his, pulling her into a warm and wet, deep kiss. What the people around him thought of her hardly mattered to him personally. What he didn’t much care for was the worming into his private life with the goal of making his decisions for him. It was rather insulting to be indirectly told that one did not know what was best for oneself.

He did what he wanted with her. To her. Which she was more than happy with. Whether it made others happy was of no concern.  _ They  _ weren't his playmates.

She fell into him, farther and farther, until she was barely even trying to hold herself up, handing over every bit of her weight to his hands. He cradled her breasts in his palms and swept his thumbs across her swollen, blushing nipples and her lips parted to steal a startled breath. Her thighs tensed and twitched as she tried to thrust her chest farther into his hold, to turn his touches from teasing to fulfilling. Then she felt his teeth bite down into her bottom lip, harder than normal, than what was pleasing, and abruptly jerked back.

“Ach, careful!” she exclaimed, sucking her lip into her mouth as she sported a rather cross yet still very drunken expression. She was faintly panting, and he knew she would be starting to feel the unyielding pressure of the rope. Rubbing and pulling at her increasingly heated, sensitive skin with every breath she took.

“Language,” he responded simply, taking her face in his hand. He pressed his thumb in beneath her lip, coaxing it back out from between her possessive and wary teeth, and delicately brushed the smarting, throbbing flesh. “Just because you do not, at present, look like a proper lady does not mean you cannot speak like one.”

“So that means you have to hurt me?”

A brief, muted flash of white teeth. Unmistakable even through the darkness. “Sometimes.” 

Sometimes he liked hearing vulgar, indecent words burst forth from between her lips. Sometimes he simply liked making her bleed a bit. Oftentimes he liked both.

“You’re the one who told me to use my words,” she said. 

He tilted his head a bit, brows arching at the challenge. His thumb was still over her lip. He depressed it into the center slightly, where there was a tiny dot of blood slowly spreading out like ink across paper. “You’re terribly mouthy for someone in such a vulnerable, compromising state.”

“Mm,” she breathed, grabbing a hold of his gaze from beneath her lashes. “I thought you liked me mouthy.” Her tongue darted out and ran up the length of his thumb. She took the entire digit into her mouth, her lips clinging to him as she slowly worked it like she so often would work his cock. Mastered, unabashed enthusiasm.

“You always do this,” he said in a low voice. His erection was urgently nudging at the fly of his trousers. Thick, insistent and very annoyed. Had he not bound her hands behind her, he knew they’d have been all over it by this point. And he would have simply fallen back and happily let her take control. Just as he had done many times in the past.

She slowly drew her mouth up, her lips and tongue hugging tight to his slickened skin. Then she released him with a loud, wet pop. And his cock jumped at the sound like a trained animal. “Do what?” she asked in a quiet, innocent voice, eyes large and wide, her lips pressing up against the pad of his thumb.

But he pushed her back and she hit the small hill of collected pillows with a huff. He crawled over her, hands sinking into the cushions on either side of her head. “No,” he said, pressing the full weight of his stare down upon her. “Not tonight. Tonight, you will lie here, acquiescent and respectful. You will play nice. You will  _ listen _ .” 

Then his gaze went soft and he smiled. He began tracing the line of her jaw with the tip of his index finger, and his tone had a fine, deliberate edge. “Unless what you really desire is to remain like this. Tied up; painfully, sorely frustrated, while I allocate all of my attention over to the mounds of work I have rather irresponsibility set aside to play with you.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “I’d only too eagerly let you squirm around for awhile.”

“Empty threat,” she countered. She knew he would never leave her alone, so thoroughly bound. That was dangerous. And there were few things that burrowed under his skin like the thought of her cohorting with danger. He’d made it perfectly clear that their erotic games were allowed only under his strict and scrupulous supervision. Not least in part due to his established claim over her. Along with keeping the eccentric details of their sex life far below anyone’s radar.

But she noticed his eyes go dark, even in the shadows. The presence of his teeth was suddenly far more disconcerting than it had been only a moment ago. “Please do try me,” he purred. His voice was velvet smooth and deep; and though that sound typically made her pulse drop down hard to in between her legs, the muscles in her stomach had unexpectedly gone rigid and pulled back, keeping her heart hammering against the walls of her chest. “I would very much love to know that I am still perfectly capable of surprising you.”

His finger was pressing up against the bottom of her chin, tilting her head back into the pillows, forcing her to look down her nose in order to keep his gaze. “But you wouldn’t...” she trailed off, unable to properly move her jaw. The fingers fixed to her spine beneath her tensed. She tried inconspicuously to flex and pull her wrists apart. Checking for any overlooked or forgotten slack that she could use against him. But she found no give.

He noticed this little move; and so trailed his fingers down her stomach, casually tugging at the various criss-crossing lines as they descended. Forcing to the forefront of her mind just how skilled and experienced with these ropes his fingers were. How sturdy and solid his knots were. How utterly helpless she was. Silently, emphatically reminding her that she was entirely dependent upon his permission and his good graces to regain any amount of authority over those hands of hers.

“No, I would certainly never  _ abandon  _ you. Come now, child, you know me much better than to even imagine such a thing.”

“Then--?”

He clicked his tongue again. As if the answer was entirely obvious. “I am equally as capable of reading my reports in here as I would be in my study,” he said, sliding a finger in underneath one of the cords that laid along the narrow seam between her thigh and her crotch. Leisurely running it up and down. “You will not be left alone. But I can, in good conscience, assure you that you  _ will  _ be left in a rather mad state of both mind and body.”

“That’s a terrible way to treat your girlfriend, you know.” Her head was spinning and swimming and she was starting to shiver. The cyclical press and release of the rope so close to her vagina was making her want to roll her hips, up and down, up and down.

“Hm. You’re right,” he mused, his fingernails creeping over to play across her pubic bone. He was tracing a figure eight onto her skin. The battle for self-control was now a war. “How about I offer up some assistance then? Surely that must be something a good boyfriend would do.”

“Um… okay?” she said hesitantly. Confused and uncertain. Was that the right answer? She wasn’t sure. He’d lost her somewhere within the back and forth. Her attention had been drawn completely to his fingers and now every word was trying to push its way through a dense, humid fog. She could hardly see straight, much less think.

But he could still see straight. He could see very clearly her coherence unthreading itself. And he knew precisely how to physically counter that unthreading. He slipped his hands into the bends of her knees, hoisted them up and then let them fall on either side of her hips, spreading her legs wide in one fluid maneuver. He reached up and over with both hands to grab something he’d set off to the side, something she couldn’t see. 

Then there was the sound of the wrought iron headboard. Lightly rocking and creaking.

“What are you doing?” she asked meekly, trying to peek up at the corner of the bed he was messing with. But she was too far sunken into the pillows and her vision was obstructed by a wall of fluff. She tried to push herself up onto her elbows and he instantly placed his palm against the center of her chest, forcing her flat to the mattress. She was in no position to fight. And without so much as a fleeting glance he simply went back to work, the headboard shaking gently as he did so.

There was a sudden, hard tug. Then another.

He finally began to move back down, away from the corner of the bed. And she finally saw the long, straight black cord elegantly running through his lithe fingers as he carried it along with him, keeping it pulled taut from the solid iron bars he’d just secured it to. Both her lungs and her heart tripped over themselves as she watched him settle on his knees between her open legs; as his hands disappeared beneath her; as she felt the unmistakable sensation of cool, braided nylon wrap firmly around the underside of her thigh.

“Wait,” she started.

And then the rest of her words sank back down into her stomach as his hands moved with rapid, mesmerizing ease, looping the line up the inside and then over the top of her thigh. Then he was laying it down around the outside of the limb as his free hand seized her ankle and pushed her calf up against the bottom of her thigh. His hands swiftly traded jobs. Throwing the rope from one set of fingers to the other, the line trailing faithfully as he caught her ankle with the opposite hand. Then the rope was up against the inside of her ankle. Rounding her ankle. Encircling her ankle completely as he expertly wove the line through and around her leg in a tight figure eight. A figure eight that kept her ankle securely bound to the bottom of her thigh.

His fingers continued tucking and looping and weaving, stringing new lines through old ones, laying one after another in quick, practiced, confident movements. The rough whisper of braided nylon sliding against braided nylon fell against the feeling of it gently, carefully buffing her skin to a warm sensitivity as it raced across. A tingling contrast between the cool temperature of the material and the heat of delicate friction.

“Give me your safeword,” he said as he continued to weave and weave and weave.

She cleared her throat and swallowed. “Blue.” Her voice was soft, but confident. Quiet excitement. Unwavering trust.

“Good girl,” he praised sincerely, glancing up with his sharp blue eyes to drink in the way hers glistened so vividly under his commendation. The base of his spine was starting to prick and tingle. Nerves excited and sparkling, triggered by the sublime sensation of rope slipping through his fingers once again. By the explicit visuals of vulnerability and submission. By the subtle sounds that betrayed the dense, all consuming arousal unfurling within her as the balance of power tipped dramatically. She was beginning to fall while he was ascending higher and higher. Everything but the outside world and its passage of time was in full focus. Vibrant colors and rich noises and a truly overwhelming obsession with the way her body always moved and responded so shamelessly to his every touch. His mere breath would become just as persuasive against her skin as the unforgiving grip of his fingers around her wrist.

His gaze remained unwavering as he artfully layered the lines. Giving her the opportunity to speak up. Daring her to use her safe word. She would not be in trouble. He would not be angry or disappointed and he would not push or pressure. He did not need to. Because he knew her boundaries and he knew what she wanted. He knew what made her hot, wet and breathless.

And she laid there in chosen silence. Hot, wet and breathless. Transfixed as she watched the layers inch up and up and up. She caught the grin that had begun to pull at his lips as he refocused his gaze on the black rope he was now stretching back up towards the same corner of the headboard. There was a sharp tug on her leg this time, pulling her knee higher. More creaking and rocking.

Then he sat back. A bright, expectant look on his face. Eyes trained on his new piece of work. “Extend your leg for me, please,” he said quietly. Welcoming and embracing the warm, effervescent fullness expanding in his chest, pushing out against his ribs and crawling up his throat. His limbs were stiffening with keen, predatory eagerness. The high tide of adrenaline was fast flooding his mind, and he was feeling comically and aggressively giddy, powerful, and hungry.

The state was recognizable and deeply familiar. One that, due to a lingering fear of someone opening their mouth in places and around people they shouldn’t, he’d been forced to suppress in the past. The carnal inclinations to restrain and discipline while behind closed doors had remained under strict lock and key, ultimately becoming focused inward and on himself. Not at all where he’d wanted them to be. Not at all where they were during his moments of dark, unabridged fantasy.

But then she had broken into his life and she had broken in rather unexpectedly. Presenting him with a stunning, scintillating collection of complementary tastes and desires. A head brimming with unconventional fantasies that were surprisingly compatible with his own. Ropes and leather and power games made her tingle in all the same filthy ways they made him tingle. She was novel, unique, sinfully fun. She was a fucking deviant; and a rather passionate one at that. And he knew a little something about deviancy.

Most important of all: she had come to him with a mouth that kept itself reliably gagged. Even when he wasn’t around to physically enforce such a thing himself.

And  _ that  _ was really all he needed.

She tried to do exactly as he’d ordered. The muscles in her thigh and calf flexed as she attempted to straighten her leg out. But the only thing that came of this effort was the pressure of the lines angrily squeezing her thigh and ankle. A high-pitched yelp from the wrought iron. Along with the tight, dry whine of the rope straining and fighting against her.

His fingers curled into his palms as he inhaled softly with pride and satisfaction. An automatic response to that particular sound. A response he wasn’t even consciously aware of.

She’d seen it enough times to have long ago established the pattern. And she liked seeing what that sound did to him. The way his eyes lit up from the thrill bolting through his body, sparking alive every nerve in less than a second as his priorities began to shift away from the dizzying emotional titillation toward a hard, consuming need for physical stimulation.

“I can’t,” she confirmed for him. Pushing out again. Making the iron and rope whine in harmony.

“Perfect,” he said on the exhale. Then he met her eyes again. “Now behave while I take care of the other one.”

x x x

“You really do look very magnificent like this,” he said as he circled her with his hands clasped behind his back, appraising her kneeling form before coming to a halt in front of her. Her knees were spread shoulder-width apart, and her wrists had been bound to the outside of her ankles which had in turn been bound to her thighs. A simpler, lighter form of bondage next to what they normally toyed around with. But extremely effective nonetheless. Not everything had to be an intricate maze of loops and knots.

“You look closer to a work of art than a human-being. It’s a great shame that I cannot place you upon the wall and show you off to the rest of the world.”

“Thank you,” she directed toward the carpeting, twisting in her ties a little, a warmth in both her chest and dripping down below her tummy. Unable to keep herself from taking physical delight in his absolute attention. But this innocuous misstep in posture was all right. Her eyes had remained anchored to the neat laces crossing atop his shiny black leather shoes. Precisely where they belonged during scenes such as this until she was given verbal permission to move them. And he was feeling awfully forgiving following the intense performance she’d given him the night before.

Because in the end, he hadn’t given to her the ending she’d so intensely wanted. Wanted to the point he’d had to stroke her face and brush her hair and soothe her with gentle, simple words before releasing her from the ropes. The reality he’d decided upon had at first hit her like a truck, and had leveled her to a gasping, pleading, writhing mess.

Regardless, she understood perfectly why he did this. The rigorous practice of tease and denial was harrowing and beyond difficult. But the climaxes it produced were comparable to nothing else this world had to offer. 

Everything he did to her truly was for her own good. Even if it didn't feel like it in the moment. One had to put blood, sweat and tears into mining the glittering delirium sitting at the core of delayed gratification. Because why settle for simple satisfactions when one could have debilitating intoxication?

He slowly sank down onto one knee, resting his forearm across the other, and lifted her chin with his free hand. Her eyes remained cast down; and he just about literally purred with pride. “See? You can be so well behaved when you want to be,” he said from the very back of his throat through heavy admiration. Then he gently ran his fingers back through her hair. “It’s unfortunate that we sometimes find ourselves having to force this behavior.”

This statement was simply erotic window dressing. Truth be told, he very much liked and approved of the scattered pattern of unpredictable, cheeky disobediences. She had a firm grasp on when she was and was not allowed to brat. And providing him various opportunities to punish and discipline her was a feature of this particular role. One they both enjoyed. She knew full well how he received just as much pleasure putting her through her disciplines as he did watching her bow her head in complete and utter submission afterwards. 

These games wouldn’t be as deliriously fun if she never bit back, and they were both in silent agreement on that. After all, there were many, many ways in which one could emphasize their position of authority.

His fingertips brushed down the side of her neck, then across her collarbone. He started to delicately trace the textured, curving shadows that snaked down her body in smooth, unbroken lines. A leftover reflection of last night’s bindings. The flat muscles of her stomach stiffened as he descended, and he watched with great interest as her thighs flexed while his hand trailed down along the inside of one. When he reached the inside of her knee, he lightly tapped her twice with two fingers.

“Farther.”

She obediently shuffled her knees farther apart. And he used this bit of premeditated misdirection to sweep his fingers in beneath her and located her slick opening. He pushed them halfway past the first knuckles and her eyes went wide as her body jumped with a startled gasp. It was usually a bit of a struggle to make her accommodate two on the very first thrust. She was absurdly tight, always had been. And without sufficient foreplay, her body--as much as he knew she wished and pretended otherwise--tended to fight him a little in the beginning.

Which, when under the right circumstances and assiduous attention, worked as an impossibly powerful, mutual turn-on. Pain was foreign to neither of them. It was a formidable, effective tool that, when wielded carefully, could successfully force the rawest of pleasures. The longer a period of denial, the tighter the wires of pain and pleasure twisted and knotted themselves together. Any distinctions between good and bad vanished, all that mattered was that there was  _ something _ .

But she made sure to keep her chin up and her gaze lowered. Focused on the shoelaces that were still within view.

He pressed his fingertips up against the front of the hot, pulsating muscles and slowly drew them down and forward, maintaining a fixed, even pressure. When he was on the edge of withdrawing completely, he pushed back in, to the second knuckles this time. Her lips parted with a feeble noise and he felt her sex pulse and grip fiercely at his fingers. A vain, worthless effort to crush them. An effort that backfired. The sensation shot straight down to the tip of his cock like an accidental love letter and made him proceed a bit more quickly and aggressively than he’d intended.

He pulled out again and then unforgivingly blew right past the second knuckles upon reentry, burying his fingers to the hilt. Out and in again, out and in again, over and over. Purposeful. Determined. Searching. Reading her expressions with shrewd, experienced eyes. Until he was greeted with the satisfying sight of her fighting to keep her eyes open, fighting a desire to fidget as she sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth. The thoughts running circles in her head as he worked were hardly a mystery:  _ laces, laces, laces, laces… _

“You’re being rather good tonight,” he said as his fingers pushed and pulled with a slow, steady, solid rhythm. Affectionately stroking the remarkably soft and slippery walls of her pussy. “Wherever did that impudent little tongue of yours run off to? It certainly wasn’t so shy last night. Did I frighten it away?”

All she could do was whimper in response as her she began to relax more and more into his movements, hips rolling back and forth in tandem with his hand. She was starting to pant. Her toes and fingers were starting to curl. He’d obviously found the spot, her body had never been capable of concealing that.

He pulled his now glistening fingers out; and just as her muscles were about to fall limp under a lovely mixture of both disappointment and relief, he dragged them up through the slit of her sex, up and over her sensitive clitoris. She hiccuped through her teeth and jumped again and he pushed his fingers back down in order to draw them up again.

He was quick to move his free hand to the back of her neck to pull her into a hard kiss. He took her face with the other hand, wet fingers hot against her skin, his body slightly rising above hers as he inhaled deeply through his nose, feeding the dense burn liberally flowering out from within the core of his chest. The hand cupping her neck began to descend, flowing smoothly down the bridge of her spine until he found the small of her back. He pressed his palm into her spine, forcing her head to tip up and back in order to preserve the kiss.

Without pulling away he delicately broke the connection, letting his lips linger tantalizingly close to her own. He kept them positioned like this as he gingerly trailed his nails down over the sides of her ribs, the heat of his breath sticking to her lips. When he found her hip he yanked her in as close as he possibly could, trapping his painfully pronounced erection between their bodies; which enthusiastically welcomed the change in pressure before immediately deciding it wasn’t nearly enough and trying to buck it off in a wild plea for attention.

For a quick moment, he regretted tying her hands to her ankles. He wanted to feel her fingers frantically working to free his cock. The promising tug and pull of the choking fabric. The uncensored hitch in his breathing at the short second of instant relief from the expanding pressure within his groin, that distinct moment of liberation. He wanted to feel the tight, self-assured grip from her confident fingers as she took a step back to grant her mouth a direct route to his cock. The soothing, wet fever of her tongue cushioning the underside of the head, protecting him from the ridge of her bottom teeth. He’d slip his fingers into her hair, roll his eyes back and let her consume him so thoroughly that his legs would shake and give out and drop him unforgivingly to the floor in a disgusting mess of orgasmic fulfillment. Days would have to sloth by before even the most pathetic touches of innocent friction against his penis no longer caused him to visibly wince and twitch. Because the act of sucking him off was something she made a rousing performance out of.

As if he’d been narrating this distracting reverie aloud, she whispered, “I want it on my tongue,” thinking she could best him with words, catch him off guard drowning in his own lust. Except he’d gotten so much better in speaking this type of language. It only became easier as his inhibitions turned useless and then altogether corrupt. He could shamelessly voice whatever ridiculous, lubricious thing that sprouted in his mind the moment it appeared and it’d only ever make her more brazenly aroused.

He nipped at her, and then pulled back a bit so as to see her face. “Look at me.” His voice was rough but this command was not a rebuke, it was a permission.

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing blown, trembling pupils. She was sinking and sinking fast which both submerged the forefront of his mind under another raging torrent of adrenaline; and roused the sedulous watchman in the background whose sole job was to exercise an important round-the-clock duty. Reading and translating every one of her reactions, hunting for the smallest sign that the floor of consciousness was about to drop out from beneath her and plumet her down into the dangerous depths of unresponsiveness. Playtime would have to come to an immediate end. He’d release her bindings and forthwith shift her gently into aftercare in an attempt to prevent--or at the very least lessen--the impact of the endorphin shock.

But until then, everything was fair game. 

“I’d far prefer it down your throat,” he said softly and carefully, as if he’d leashed the statement to prevent it from mauling her. Allowing it just enough slack to be a threat. And she went perfectly limp within his hands, groaning and swaying and swooning. It was almost absurd how easy it was to do such a thing to her. Effortless. Simply effortless. 

If he wasn’t so wound up he would’ve rolled his eyes. But he was wound up and moving and acting and speaking through increasingly licentious impulses.

“Do you think you deserve to be fucked tonight?”

“Yes,” she said immediately, nodding vigorously, her gaze suddenly very alert.

His voice had inadvertently struck the word  _ fucked  _ hard like a match. Dragging his attention to that occasionally annoying fact that his functioning vocabulary had this tendency to deteriorate during these types of scenes. Becoming what would normally be so uncomfortably vulgar and ucouth that it almost embarrassed him having to listen to himself talk like this.

Almost.

Because every word of his, regardless of what it meant or how it was used, would under no circumstances ever find its way into someone else’s ears. She liked these words, and she particularly liked hearing them from his characteristically, fastidiously polished mouth. “Because,” she’d whispered to him boldly one day while in the presence of two other shopgirls, “Pretty words are for making love. Not fucking.” And this comment alone had bestowed upon him not only the confidence to start unlocking long neglected doors with her, but also an excuse to continue doing absolutely nothing to curb any indelicate behavior.

“Do you deserve to cum?” he asked. Words he’d only ever introduced to her overly eager ears.

Now she hesitated. That was a different question. Frankly, these were not her decisions to make. Her position neither demanded nor allowed her any such judgement calls. Not in this scene. Not in this role. That was a privilege that belonged to him and him alone because that was precisely how he was playing the game tonight. The rules had been set. He wanted pure and perfect, automatic obedience this time. Nothing else.

And that was a very easy concept to grasp. Even while one was falling deeper and deeper into subspace. It was simple. Natural. Instinctual.

“That isn’t my decision to make,” she said.

He threw her a look that fell somewhere between a tender smile and a vicious snarl. “You’ll make it for me this once.”

“Okay,” she nodded. Pure and perfect, automatic obedience

His fingers had sneaked back down in between her legs and were now gathering the wetness that had been steadily creeping down the insides of her thighs. He brushed his sparkling fingertips across her lips as he spoke: “Only one of two things will happen now my dear, dear girl,” he said as he lazily trailed his wet fingers down the middle of her breasts, her abdomen, finally returning to between her legs and wandering innocuously down the enflamed slit of her sex. “Either I will fuck you with my fingers,”--he thrusted into her--“until you finish. Or I will fuck you with my cock until  _ I _ finish.”

Inundated with arousal as she was, her breath still tripped on the shock of instantaneous awareness, and that snarl was suddenly winning out against the smile. Sadism had always been an attractive color on him.

“Yes,” he was quick to confirm for her. She didn’t need to validate her realization by way of a frivolous, counterfeit question. The answer was in front of her and they both knew she could see it. And though he was cultivating an obscene amount of delight from how she couldn’t help but fall victim to an instinct to seek out at least a little bit of comforting denial, he really didn’t want her wandering very far into that silly fantasy.

He tucked his face into the curve of her shoulder and drew his tongue up the side of her neck, toward that sensitive little spot hiding just beneath her ear. He gave her a long, firm kiss upon reaching it, sending a fierce, tight shiver of pleasure hurtling down the side of her body as he held her close. His teeth found and latched onto her earlobe. Then his sonorous voice was suddenly filling her ear as he breathed:

“Only one of us will be finishing tonight. And you will be determining which of us is to be  _ so  _ fortunate.”

x x x

“Are you still with me?” he asked, though the sound hardly went beyond a wet, throaty croak, almost unintelligible so wrapped up within his panting. The structural integrity of his question was undeniably precarious and frail, severely weakened under the considerable load of lust.

He still hadn’t entered her. Not yet. He’d been having too much fun putting her through her paces. Exploiting the weight and the density of his cock. Using it in a significantly tortuous fashion as he pushed it up and over her inflamed clitoris, watching as her back automatically arched up sharply off the floor, exposing every strained tendon running through her neck. There was a sudden game of tug-of-war between her wrists and ankles, the ropes whining harshly in the darkness along with her. She pulled at her hands, trying to haul them up while her feet remained committed to keeping themselves anchored to the floor in order to drive her hips down and milk every bit of sensation she could from the stroke.

Then he’d drag his cock back down, making her press her spine back into the carpeting, the muscles in her stomach pulling her hips up and in as much as they could. She’d been trying to move in a manner that followed the inverse pattern to his own, trying to counter the direction of each one of his strokes as they came. He pushed up and she dropped down; he dropped down and she pushed up. Desperate for friction, for pressure.

He’d been controlling and manipulating her entire body with this one, simple maneuver. As if there were strings keeping the behavior of her body firmly tethered to the motions of his cock. And that familiar, sweeping high such a demonstrations always triggered had once again left him reeling under a pure, uncut power trip.

But now the head of his cock was resting flush against the saturated opening of her sex and he had only to press his hips forward an inch to completely change the course of this performance. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling with a pleasing theatrical flair. Every breath was a struggle, fraying the inside of her throat raw. She was far past the point of rationally caring about any part of her own well-being outside her immediate sexual needs. She was by nature an intensely sensual, highly sexed girl, easily influenced through touch alone; and while immersed in subspace, he knew the moment he pushed in could potentially prove too much and cause her to fall out.

It had happened in the past and he needed to be sure he was ready for it. Especially now. Their latest separation had been abnormally lengthy, and instead of prudently using his first night home to safely take the edge off as was routine, he’d decided to dive straight into the fun and games in order to amplify their initial release. He’d been absolutely itching to play and she’d been only too willing.

So the connection between him and the now nervous watchman had become a bit muffled and fuzzy. The vehement, urgent warnings that noted he was getting close to the edge were starting to fade and drop off. A single, meager, careless step in the wrong direction was all that was required to effortlessly, accidentally cut this imperative line of communication.

He’d purposefully stolen her awareness. Every last bit of it. And it was his responsibility to draw her in under the umbrella of his own. He needed to be sure he still had a secure grip on the line tied to reason and coherence, that would instantly ground him with one, solitary tug before he charged ahead and buried himself inside her.

He needed to be sure he was still here even when she was not.

“Evchen,” he coaxed; and at the return of his voice she nodded, slow and heavy, her eyes rolling a bit. He could patently see that she was incredibly deep and was having some trouble locating him above her. Trying to peer through all that warm, cozy darkness that was nestled in at the back of her skull, always patiently waiting for her to return. Her blinking was sluggish; her skin was fully varnished with sweat; and her focus kept sliding off him as if he were made of ice.

“Mhmmm,” she sighed finally, long and drawn out. Utterly directionless. Her head fell to the side and she was once again seeing absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t convinced she’d processed, much less understood, the question. He wasn’t even sure she was actually talking to him. So he reached down to her right ankle, searching for her hand. It didn’t take long for him to find it and once he did, he pressed his index and middle fingers into the center of her palm. Even while tripping in his own fashion, he was familiar enough with the checklist of cognition tests to run through it without much thought.

“Squeeze.”

A slow second passed. And then another. Then he felt her fingers wrap tight around his and quickly let go. But he was quick to shake his head. “Twice. You know the routine.” At least, she did when she was in a brighter, more cloudless state of mind.

“I did,” she mumbled, though she may as well have been trying to communicate through a mouthful of marbles. Still, he couldn’t help but smirk at the pitched edge of unmistakable annoyance in her voice, the way she tried to roll her eyes before getting lost along the way. But she finally squeezed his fingers twice, as ordered.

He leaned in and returned his mouth to that little spot hiding beneath her ear. “Any tingling?”

The humidity his words physically cast against her skin sent a fire flashing down her neck and her entire body visibly responded. “Ummm, yeh,” she giggled a bit hysterically. “But it’s, it’s between my legs.” His huff of amusement that rushed beside her ear almost made her scream; so he pushed himself back up, away from the dangerous, concentrated minefield of an erogenous zone that was her entire neck.

Instead, he moved his hand down between her legs and coated the tips of his fingers with her arousal. Then he gently depressed his thumb over her clitoris and began working it with firm and measured, slippery circles. “Give me your safeword,” he said, studying her superbly reactive facial features as he also noticeably pressed the head of his cock a little tighter to her opening, taking special care to prevent any actual penetration.

“Fuck,” she gasped, arching her back up off the floor again, straining to somehow farther widen the spread of her legs. He smirked and shook his head, leisurely masturbating her, riveted by the image of her teeth grinding against one another as she fought to breathe through them. Just as she was about to edge he let up, loving the way her jaw dropped with a pitiful whine and her eyes snapped open as her hips automatically tried to follow him in a desperate attempt to recapture the vanishing pressure.

Even better was the way her body aggressively started at the unexpected return of his touch. He ran her through the same number again. And again. And again. The time it took to lead her back to that edge halved between each iteration. The potency behind the applied pressure grew exponentially. His movements became shorter, slower, and slighter, until he had no choice but to fade them altogether to prevent her from cumming.

She was communicating her pleas solely through a repetitive, almost panic-stricken series of flattened, back-throated vowels sounds. He gave her a lingering moment to calm down before cautiously fanning his fingers out across her pubic bone. He pressed his palm flat to her skin and slid his hand up the center of her stomach, its progression unhurried and predictable in its astute effort to avoid triggering a climax simply through over-stimulation alone. She was tightly wound. Every part of her was primed and fanatically looking for physical contact. To prevent any unintentional, surprise endings, every one of his actions, every one of his touches now had to be preconceived and precise.

He came to rest his hand between her breasts, and began tapping his index finger against her sternum in time with her rigorous panting.

She somehow managed to pinpoint his touch and discern its purpose. She synched with his rhythm, letting him patiently guide her back one breath at a time. He gradually slowed his tempo and in turn her breathing, encouraging the electricity cavorting across her tips of her nerves to settle and even out again. Then, as her body started to relax and sink back toward the floor, he took her left nipple firmly between his thumb and middle finger, causing her to jolt back up and choke on nothing but her own voice.

“That’s incorrect,” he said, carefully outlining the shape of his words as he toyed with her, pinching and pulling. “Would you care to venture a different answer?”

“I, uh, the what?” Her voice was now permanently floating up in her higher register. Every word was thin, weak and brittle; separated by harsh intakes of air. She could neither follow him nor determine what it was he was after. She had almost no memory of anything he’d said. She remembered his voice. If there had been any words attached they had been eaten by the darkness.

He tightened his grip and she hissed. “Your safeword.”

“Ach! Blue, it’s blue, i--”

His hand closed tight over her mouth. He drove his hips forward. 

She jerked, and then every single muscle within her helpless little body went frighteningly, savagely rigid. The ropes around her wrists and ankles hissed, biting sharply into her skin as she pulled and pulled and pulled. Her gaze shot up into the top of her skull and there was an eerie second of silence before she screamed gutterally into the palm of his hand, the sound shaking and vibrating against her ribs as it came out. Making the bones in his fingers shiver.

He kept himself still, fixed to where he was, hips now flush up against her thighs, cock sheathed to the hilt within a hot, skin tight deathgrip of pulsating tissue; carefully and attentively observing through senses excited and sharpened with electricity the monster he’d just sicked on her. Her entire body violently writhed and convulsed beneath him as hard wave after hard wave of solid, unadulterated pleasure ripped and tore through her muscles, shredding everything in its path.

Her groans were serrated and chaotically staggered, and she was starting to gulp for air through her nose. He removed his hand from her mouth. The sudden rush of air that surged into her lungs came in too fast, instigating a brief coughing fit that her body had to handle all on its own because she was no longer inside it.

Eventually, the convulsions began to abate as the monster gradually forced its way free from her body. Without any real warning, everything inside her suddenly gave out and dropped her to the floor with a solid, slightly concerning thud. He lightly ran his fingers down her body, searching for some type of response, some type of awareness. To his relief, she twitched and whined feebly. A cute, plaintive little sound that made his heart flutter. He dipped in toward her, cradling the side of her face in one of his hands, gazing down upon her broken form with what was surely a sickening amount of sugary affection.

“Evchen? Are you still with me?” he said softly, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

“Huh,” she managed from somewhere. 

He gently let her head roll back to the side, then reached down for her hand and pressed his fingers to the center of her palm again. “Squeeze, please.”

There was no response. For a long moment, the only parts of her that moved were her chest and stomach. He suspected he’d lost her; and was preparing to remove himself from inside her to diligently go about releasing her bindings when she inhaled deeply. Then she shoved the air back out on an unstable, shuddering breath, her entire body shaking with its release, her eyes still closed. But she felt the pressure of his fingers at the center of her palm, understood their significance, and did exactly as he’d ordered.

Twice this time. 

“Very good girl, Evchen.”

“Hmm,” she smiled, blissfully drunk and flying through the dark, dizzying clouds of euphoria that had stuffed her full to every last nook and cranny. He let her relax and relish in unrestrained flight for awhile, slipping his fingers through hers and stroking the top of her thumb with his own. Then she finally looked over at him from the corner of half lidded eyes and mumbled with dry, cracked words, “Now punish me.”

“Mm,” he agreed, gently maneuvering his fingers from between hers to brush back a few wet strands of hair that had stuck themselves flat to the top of her forehead. “Don’t worry. I very much intend to.” Then he began to retreat his hips. Withdrawing his cock from its too recently established depth.

“ _ Ahh, _ no no no no,” she whimpered through silly, rushing words, frantically shaking her head. Her knees tried to awkwardly latch onto the sides of his hips in an effort to trap him inside, though her grip was rather pathetic. “Punish so you can fuck me, it’s okay.”

He didn’t even bother with trying to suppress a hard laugh.

Of course it was okay. It was always far beyond  _ okay _ . 

“What exactly do you think my denying you now would be, if not a punishment?” he said. A purely rhetorical question. She was in no condition to be able to think at all. The entire world around her contained only three things now: him, her and raw, physical sensation. And every physical sensation lead only to mad, raving pleasure. The only productive method of punishment still available was cutting it out completely.

She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head and cupped her chin with tender albeit firm fingers, soft voice inching toward condescending by way of its perfect, silky composure. “No, no, I understand. I’m fully aware of what you’re proposing.” 

He was fully aware of everything. The texture of the carpet imprinting onto his flesh. The filmy stickiness of her heated skin clinging to his fingers. The far off desperation that was struggling beneath the hard and heavy weight of total ecstasy in her eyes. The sound of her tongue having to play catch-up with her words.

Everything, but the neatly piled collection of official reports resting atop his desk. 

“You’re proposing that I physically hurt you--except, carefully considering the shape you’re in at present, we both very well know that pain would hardly serve as any true, effective means of discipline. Quite the contrary, actually.”

However, he couldn’t deny that the vivid memories of her body lewdly writhing about amongst the sharp sound of smooth leather striking and snapping against wet, supple skin; the way she couldn’t ever keep herself from arching and whining with such bewildering, vertiginous need, even while bound and gagged, as her skin smarted and burned… he couldn’t deny that these memories were remarkably appealing, even inspiring at the moment. For both his mind and his cock. The latter of which quite literally jumped at the suggestion.

She felt this reaction. The sudden, hard buck up against the walls of her vagina. But she was not coherent enough to make any sort of connection between what his mouth had said and the accompanying challenge his body had raised. Had she not been so far gone she would've noticed it immediately; she would’ve taken advantage and acted upon it immediately.

But she didn’t.

And this was proof enough that physical pain was not a smart idea. Not right now. Her nerves were currently dangerously defective and would only be sending her inaccurate, unreliable messages. Messages that he relied upon himself. He’d have nothing at his disposal to determine where she was in relation to her body’s threshold outside the delayed, slowly shifting colors across her skin--which effectively amounted to working completely blind. 

She had descended too deeply. Her tolerance for pain no longer had a ceiling. The wires of pain and pleasure were now a single line. Lasting, if not permanent damage was a cliff face he could not clearly see. One he could easily push her off of on accident.

And far be it from him to indulge in such risks with her.

He leaned in, as if moving to kiss her. But he stopped just short and set the words, “You’re in no state to be whipped,” delicately across her tongue instead. Then he kissed the corner of her mouth and smirked. “Not tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> This series has no outline. No script. No running plot. Each chapter will be its own isolated story. New ones will come as scenes decide to present themselves to me.  
> So have fun.  
> Enjoy the kink.  
> Feel free to request.  
> And don’t take any one portrayal too seriously. This is only an alternate universe, after all.  
> (Probably.)


End file.
